If We Kill Them, We Get Their Prompts
by janiejanine
Summary: I'm suffering from a truly epic case of writer's block, and there's only one thing someone in this position can do. To the prompt generator!
1. Phantoms

**Sebastian Vael/Maferath**

**An Awkward Moment**

Sebastian wandered aimlessly through one of the Chantry's side rooms, adjusting a candle here, shifting a book there. It would be another half hour before evening services, and he had time to kill. He reached out to adjust a small painting of Andraste and Maferath that was hanging crooked in a corner. No wonder it was tucked away almost out of sight. Maferath's name was synonymous with treachery. His jealousy had changed the world. He wasn't exactly someone to inspire a flock to good works and love for the Maker. As Sebastian pondered that, running his hand idly over the frame, someone whispered in his ear, close enough to touch:

_Is that my wife's face on your crotch?_

Sebastian whipped his head around, checking the room for intruders. No one was there.

His heart began slowing to its normal pace, and he had to laugh at his own jumpiness. His imagination was just working overtime. Wasn't it?


	2. Contests

**Isabela/Garrett Hawke**

**Don't Blink**

Garrett stared deeply into Isabela's eyes. He felt like he'd die if he tore his gaze from her face; instead he'd drown in those amber pools. He fought the urge to blink. His eyes were burning a bit, but it was nothing compared to what he'd lose if he looked away.

Aveline gave them a withering look and snorted. "Can't you two just arm-wrestle like normal people?"


	3. Debts

**Herren/Velanna**

**No Escape**

"You! Elf!"

Velanna paused and turned to scan the grounds of the Keep. She didn't see any other elves around; presumably this _incredibly __rude_ human was addressing her. Her eyes settled on the one person she wanted to see the least: the keeper of the blacksmith's shop, from whom she'd ordered several new metal braces to reinforce her robes in case of an accidental hit. Unfortunately, she'd also neglected to pay for them. Since then he'd been popping up at the most inopportune times.

She pretended not to hear and quickened her pace, trying to act casual and keeping Herren in her peripheral vision. He began to move faster. So did she. As she neared the Keep's stairs, she sped up until she was running up the steps, into the throne room, and smack into Oghren, who was standing as always in front of a seemingly bottomless keg.

"I'm being chased. Distract him," she ordered.

Oghren looked up at her, eyes bleary. "Huh?"

"Please keep up, dwarf. I'm. Being. Chased. Distract him."

"How?"

"I don't care. Belch at him, you're good at that. He'll drop like a rock."

Velanna glanced behind her. No more time to waste. She ducked into an alcove, hoping that he'd just give up and go away. Seconds later, angry footsteps pounded into the room.

Her hiding place was too far away to make out the words, but she could hear the rumble of voices, Herren's shouting competing with Oghren's slurred responses. Suddenly, there was a loud belch, then the unmistakable sound of a body dropping to the floor.

She ventured out of the alcove to survey the damage. Herren was lying slumped at Oghren's feet.

"How about that!" he cackled, waving his mug at her. "It worked!"


	4. Dreams

**Jowan/Leliana**

**Loving You From Afar**

When he dreamed, he dreamed about Lily.

Sometimes they were hidden in an alcove somewhere in the tower, stealing a few moments alone before the templars caught up with them. Sometimes he was in the Chantry during services, trying to catch the eye of the pretty initiate whose name he didn't yet know. Sometimes he was slicing open his palm, glancing up to see the look of horror and disgust on her face before fleeing like a coward.

No matter how bad the dream, the worst part was always waking up and realizing, once again, that she was gone.

He was startled out of his doze by the sound of footsteps. He tried to blink the sleep away, looking up through bleary eyes. There were people outside his cell. He caught a glimpse of red hair, kind eyes, and his heart skipped. "Lily?" he whispered.

The strangers shared a confused look. His vision focused, and he could see the differences now. The face was too round, the lips too full. The hair was too light, not the same auburn that he'd loved to comb his fingers through, just before leaning in for a kiss. The disappointment was almost too much to bear.

He leaned back, waiting to hear what these people had to say. Whatever it was, he could handle it. He'd already gotten through the worst part of the day.


	5. Gifts

**Bethany Hawke/Cullen**

**A Satinalia Gift**

Bethany kneels backwards on the hard stone bench, elbows propped up on the tiny windowsill. Kirkwall is finally getting a proper snowfall. It's still a bit weak, nothing like the snowstorms they'd had in Ferelden, but for the Free Marches it's practically a blizzard. She's thankful for it, anyway. It doesn't seem like Satinalia without snow. Her parents had loved holidays. The house always seemed a little brighter, full of people, delicious smells wafting through the air. Her mother always managed to put together a huge meal to celebrate, no matter how poor they were. Now the only Hawkes left are herself, sitting alone in the Gallows, and her sister, sitting alone in that huge estate.

She's shaken from these not-so-cheerful meditations by the telltale clank of templar armor behind her. She turns to see Knight-Captain Cullen signal to her guard to leave the room.

She acknowledges him with a nod. "Knight-Captain."

He nods back, somewhat awkwardly. "Enchanter."

She turns her face back to the window, and he moves closer to examine the view. Her pulse quickens at this unaccustomed proximity, and she tries, mostly successfully, not to blush.

"Do you ever miss Ferelden?" Her voice seems unnaturally loud in the evening hush.

"Sometimes," he replies, gaze going somewhere far away. "But I don't regret leaving it."

"You don't regret it at all? Leaving your home?"

"No." His gruff tone warns her not to pursue the subject. He softens a bit, then adds "Bad memories."

"I'm sorry," she says, and reaches out instinctively to touch his arm. She catches herself just in time and snatches her hand back, definitely blushing now, Maker curse it.

He clears his throat to cover the awkward pause.

"I almost forgot the reason I'm here. I have something for you." He pulls a small packet of papers out of his pocket and hands it to her. "It's letters. From your sister. They...haven't yet been reviewed."

Bethany studies the packet like she expects it to disappear into thin air. "The templars haven't censored them?"

"No. I collected them beforehand, with the understanding that it goes no further than this room. Consider it a Satinalia gift. I would not, usually...but you're more...sensible than most."

Before her better judgment can stop her, Bethany throws her arms around his neck and hugs him hard. She lets go and steps back, her embarrassment matched only by his astonishment.

"Um. Thank you," she whispers, then walks quickly from the room before he can see just how much he's affected her.


	6. Suggestions

**Bethany and Varric, flirting.**

"What's wrong with me?" Bethany groaned, dropping her head onto the table with a _clunk_. She raised it up and dropped it again for good measure. Maybe if it hurt enough, she'd stop blushing.

"Nothing. You're perfect as always," Varric said smoothly. He poured two drinks from the bottle of brandy he kept hidden behind a stack of books and pushed one towards her. "What happened?"

"I'm an idiot."

"You're going to have to be more specific."

"Fine." She sighed. "I was talking to...someone. And I made a complete mess of it and I said the most stupid things and..." The rest of the sentence trailed off as she took a swig of the brandy.

"It couldn't have been that bad."

"It _was_. I don't know what to _say_. I told him I've always wondered what templars wore under their skirts."

"You sound like your sister."

"Varric!"

"Okay, okay. Sorry. And what did he say?"

"I don't know. I was so embarrassed. I just ran."

Varric leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up in what Bethany privately thought of as his orator pose, although she'd never tell him that.

"You see, Sunshine," he said, gesturing with his glass, "Flirting is like telling a story. What you leave out is just as important as what you put in."

"Uh-huh." She closed her eyes and let him talk. He'd get to the point eventually. In the meantime, she'd relax and let his soothing voice wash over her.

She opened them again just as he was finishing up his lecture about flirtation, or possibly narrative craft. One or the other.

"Flirting is about possibilities," he was saying. "When you flirt, you suggest. You allude. You don't spell it all out. Then it would just be dirty talk, and if you want help with _that_, talk to Rivaini."

"So instead of asking specifically about his skirt, I should say something vague about big swords and hope he gets the hint?"

"Exactly. Trust me. Bat your eyelashes, throw in a few double entendres, and he'll come to you. You just have to plant the idea."

She mulled that over. It was worth a try, she supposed. Assuming she could ever work up the courage to look him in the face again.

"Does that work on Bianca?" she asked.

Varric gave her a warning look. "Hey. Leave Bianca out of this."


	7. Challenges

**Isabela/Sebastian, drinking each other under the table**

There came a time during every Wicked Grace night when Isabela got bored with cheating everyone out of their money and started trying to stir up trouble. Tonight, it seemed Sebastian was doomed to be her victim. She'd apparently decided, after several whiskeys, that if she couldn't make a dent in his chastity, she'd have a go at his sobriety.

It was a good thing he got lots of practice when it came to patience. It was being sorely tested.

"What's wrong, Brother Sebastian? Afraid I'm going to compromise your virtue?"

"Leave him alone, Bela," Hawke chided from the other end of the table.

Sebastian flushed. "It's all right."

"Oh, look, he's blushing," Isabela cooed. "How precious."

Despite her crudeness and casual blasphemy and delight in his embarrassment, Sebastian rather liked Isabela. She reminded him of a simpler time. Well, not simpler, exactly, but a time when _responsibility_ was just a word and the solutions to his problems were easily found between the sheets or at the bottom of a glass.

He rather liked all of them, really, even though they were always _Hawke's_ companions, never his. They were polite enough. He could live with the occasional too-sharp digs at his privileged upbringing (_Ale not good enough for you, Choirboy?_) and his vocation (_How are things in the Chantry? Oppress anyone today? Well, it's still early._) and even his armor (_Are you hoping to blind the enemy?_). They were wary of him, and he understood that. He was sure he'd earn their trust in time. Besides, it was worth it to spend time with Hawke.

But sometimes, it was just too much. He was a priest, not a saint, and he'd reached his breaking point.

"All right. Let's do it," he said, pushing his cup of water to the side.

Isabela looked startled. "Really?"

"You offered. Do you want to take it back?"

"Never. We could make it more interesting," she mused, tapping a finger against her chin. "We could make it strip-"

"Don't push your luck," he growled with his best holier-than-thou glare.

She glared back. "We'll see who's lucky, _Choirboy_," she said.

Maker, he hated that nickname. "Just pour," he snapped. "You might be surprised."

* * *

><p>Sebastian woke with a start. Opening his eyes was a mistake; a beam of sunlight hit him full in the face, sending stabbing pains ricocheting around inside his skull. The surface under him was hard, even more so than the bed in his room in the Chantry. His mouth tasted like something died in it.<p>

Rolling to the side, he carefully opened one eye and scanned the room. The rug he was lying on was familiar. Varric's rug. Had he spent the whole night on the floor?

_Andraste's tits_, he thought before he could stop himself, and he murmured a quick apology to the heavens. What had he done last night? He remembered a challenge...a few barbed taunts...a growing pile of empty glasses. The rest was a blur.

A horrible thought flashed into his mind. He opened his eyes, ignoring the pain, and looked down. Thank the Maker. He was still clothed.

Apart from himself, the room appeared to be unoccupied. Everyone else must have made it to their own beds. Wherever she was, he hoped Isabela was suffering as much as he was. It was only fair. That woman could goad the Knight-Commander into dancing the Remigold if she put her mind to it.

Slowly, he got to his feet, thankfully only having to pause once and wait for a wave of dizziness to subside. With any luck, he'd make it through the bar and back up to Hightown without throwing up or running into anyone he knew. The quicker he could get back to the Chantry, the better. He had a feeling he'd be spending a good part of the day in the confessional.


End file.
